Watering the Grave

“I knew this one guy. He was my neighbor. Such a damn nut, I tell you,” Abe’s uncle said and laughed. Abe looked up from his newspaper.
“Ever since he buried his wife he went out to his backyard every single day, watering the dirt on her grave. You know, even when it rained he watered it,” his uncle said, shaking his head. “He did everything he could, but nothing came up except weeds and memories. Still he watered her grave, hoping that someday she’ll grow into something beautiful that would bear his kisses like fruit.”
“What was he thinking?,” Abe asked.
“He told me he thought that maybe he gave her too much water, hahaha. But I knew,” Abe’s uncle said, leaning closer to him. “I knew that deep down inside he realized she would never grow back into his arms. Unless―”
“Unless what?”
“Unless he let her go.”

Jaundré van Breda © 2019

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